Go watch The Beat My Heart Skipped (France).

Okay, so despite my current busy life as an unemployed loser, I am standing in for Rougerum once again. The Guardian has shortlisted 50 Best Film Adaptations, chosen by a panel of "experts". Experts. Read and weep:

1984
Alice in Wonderland
American Psycho
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Brighton Rock
Catch 22
Charlie & the Chocolate Factory
A Clockwork Orange
Close Range (inc Brokeback Mountain)
The Day of the Triffids
Devil in a Blue Dress
Different Seasons (inc The Shawshank Redemption)
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (aka Bladerunner)
Doctor Zhivago
Empire of the Sun
The English Patient
Fight Club
The French Lieutenant's Woman
Get Shorty
The Godfather
Goldfinger
Goodfellas
Heart of Darkness (aka Apocalypse Now)
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Jaws
The Jungle Book
A Kestrel for a Knave (aka Kes)
LA Confidential
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
Lolita
Lord of the Flies
The Maltese Falcon
Oliver Twist
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Orlando
The Outsiders
Pride and Prejudice
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
The Railway Children
Rebecca
The Remains of the Day
Schindler's Ark (aka Schindler's List)
Sin City
The Spy Who Came in From the Cold
The Talented Mr Ripley
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
To Kill a Mockingbird
Trainspotting
The Vanishing
Watership Down

The article states that Brokeback Mountain's on the list, and it's categorised under C for Close Range. Few questions: Adrian Lyne's Lolita was truer to form than Kubrick's even though Nabokov himself adapted the book, but I'll give that Kubrick's version was a successful black comedy. Surely The Hours could make this list, too? Charlie & The Chocolate Factory - which one are we talking about, and neither do it justice for me because they never got the chocolate river right!

I don't the value my favorite quotes hold for me. I think there are meanings behind each one. I more importantly respect the level of interpretation that can go into each quote. The interpretation is almost limitless, thus the reason why they should be blogged.



"I would watch my mother, pretty and charming, as she made people feel clever and pleased with themselves, but I could not act that way. And so I have remained, in cruel pursuit of truth and excellence, an inhumane executioner of the bogus, an abomination to all but those few who overcome their aversion to truth in order to free whatever is good in them."
Louise Brooks

"I think of criticism as a form of literature. Not paraliterature, not a substitute for literature, but a kind of art concurrent with art."
Stanley Kauffmann

"I write because there's honesty in that activity. It's more difficult."
Oliver Stone

"The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress."
Philip Roth

"I believe in love but I also believe in cancer."
(Cult Classic) The Last Boy Scout.

"Don't make me out no saint, but don't put me down too deep."
The Ballad of Cable Hogue

Over the week, I treated myself to two very different DVD movies featuring large buxom women: Crumb, and Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!

The latter was surprisingly enjoyable, as I had envisioned it to be a misogynistic piece of 60s soft core filmmaking. But my husband - who is as widely read as I am in gender studies, if not more so - recommended it, so I gave it a chance.

The film follows a gang of three larger-than-life, highly-sexed women as they embark on a killing rampage in the middle of the desert. They always look good; their make-up is impeccable even while they wrestle with each other in the sand. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Quentin Tarantino had this movie in mind when he wrote Kill Bill. The difference is that the women in Faster Pussycat... are of gigantic proportions in more ways than one.

The leader of the gang, Varla, played by the luscious and scary Tura Satana, is a psychopath who hates anything that appears weak - be it man, woman or soft drink. She kills with her bare hands, as is evident to us early in the movie when the gang challenges a young couple to a drag race and win unfairly, thereby causing a scuffle between Varla and the boyfriend, in which his bones get fatally cracked.

The gang then abduct his young girlfiriend who, in comparison to them, is a helpless, whingeing "kid" (as they call her). It gives the three women pleasure to see such a weak display of their own gender suffer pain and distress.

Even more than weak females, they despise men, and when they come across a ranch run by an old lecher and his sons, Varla hatches a plan to rob the geezer of his rumoured wealth. But the men quickly catch on that the kid who's with them is not there at her own will. It is never clear whether the men want to rescue the kid of keep her for themselves to violate as they wish.

The plot is secondary to the characters, though, as this movie is a study in gender caricatures. Varla and her Hispanic(?) right-woman are actually lovers. The fact that they both look exotic (both actresses were exotic dancers in real life, after all) only accentuates their Otherness as lesbians. Their otherness, therefore, is what makes them special and seem superior to the rest.

The third member of the gang, Billie, is a fun-loving blonde who is undeniably straight ("I dunno what I'm doing with the two of you, anyway") and undoubtedly dumber than the two brunettes. The kid, the epitome of the all-American girl of Norman Rockwell paintings, is also straight, but unlike Billie, is entirely dependent on men.

The message here is clear: the less a woman needs a man, the more powerful she is, but also the more callous she becomes.

The men, on the other hand, fall for the women's wiles easily, except for the old man who is suspicious of all females. He is the only intelligent man of the lot, but because he is a lecher and is physically infirm, he must die off and we do not miss him when he does.

Man, everyone's just rotten in this movie. But because it is intentionally camp and OTT, it's actually hilarious how evil or stupid the characters are. It's worth watching for Varla alone as she is a giant of a woman with breasts as big as her already hulkish head, but who maintains her feminine sexuality and makes no apologies for her threatening appearance.

The stamp and envelope are very important things in life. (Postcards, too, for the festive in mood). They tell us that someone had thought of us enough to spare at least half-an-hour translating thoughts onto paper that only we shall read.

Someone had handwritten our name and location so that we may ineluctably see the tremor in their hand, or the conscientious duplication of our details from their address book.

They had moistened the stamp on the top right corner, checked that the letter was not too heavy or thick, and had been on the lookout for a convenient post-box to mail it off.

For the epicurean scribe, some rules apply. One must not write on the more practical 'aerogrammes' which already allocate the appropriate space for addresses, and which accord little space for prolific authors.

Heaven forbid that one sends correspondences in envelopes which bear pre-printed images of stamps, because an embossed postmark on a real, protruding stamp is precious to see and feel.

My personal preference is to use a quill pen whenever I feel like doodling in a letter (the great letter writer Dora Carrington was especially charming in her doodles to friends).

Else I enjoy using scrap paper and materials, and jazz them up to make less conventional envelopes - much to the postman's annoyance.

However, possibly the most enjoyable activity of all is shopping for a stamp. Always I enquire "Do you have any pretty ones?" whenever I purchase a stamp, and curiously peruse the denominations of stamps available.

B.J. and I have been writing letters to each other for eight years now. Though we have both grown increasingly busy in our adult lives, during our heyday we corresponded as many as three times a week, with pages numbering up to twenty. (I believe our record is twenty-three.)

Often I would get a back-up letter ready to mail off as soon as I received one of hers. We experimented with book-letters, large fold-outs, and scattered bits of post-its. We fashioned envelopes out of magazine advertisements, cardboard, plastic and tape.

When lonely, one may bear in mind the humble stamp and envelope. A single letter speaks volumes - of intimacy, sensuality and, most of all, companionship.

The opposite of depression is not happiness but vitality
- Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon

The sane create, the mad are merely miserable
- Adam Phillips, Going Sane

For this post, we decide to share with the world what grouches we are and, with blatant dismissal, state why the following films annoy us. (foray: want some chips with that, rum?)

Memoirs Of A Geisha

Foray: I speak for all Asians (hah!) when I say that this film grossly Orientalizes and exoticizes Japanese culture. Not only did the director slight in his pretty, objectifying and cliched images of Oriental beauty; he was also too lazy to find real Japanese talents (there are PLENTY) to play the lead roles. I for one am weeping that our esteemed Gong Li has taken on this thankless movie; her charisma is totally wasted here.

rum: What she said, but included its a tragedy that Hollywood only likes to dip into foreign cultures (especially Asia) when it deals with themes and stories already stereotypical of our understanding about that continent. It is as vast and as an ever changing continent as we believe our own is but why do we harp on themes and stories hundreds of years out of date? The sensible viewer is over wrought with the dead themes in this movie. Hollywood just assumes the average viewer pays little attention to Asia and likes the occasional dip into foreign culture.

Chicago

foray: Why anyone bothered making this AS a film OF a musical, is beyond me. We may as well tape the real play and distribute the DVDs. Renee Zellweger has no screen/stage presence (she is better off playing roles that do not demand her to be sexy, ie Cold Mountain and Nurse Betty), and is outshone in all her scenes with Catherine Zeta-Jones who is the true star.

rum: The death of the modern musical is the refusal to allow professional dancers to star in them! Chicago could only have so many fast cut edits to hide the fact none of the stars of Chicago could even dance! Plus a tired subject that was admittenly already tired upon debut years ago tries desperately here to ring with a dramatic flair when it should have peaked at just good entertainment.

Closer

foray: Yet another play that reads as just that on the silver screen: a play. It works better on stage rather than film because of the dramatic cues and one-liners. In one scene, when Julia Roberts and Clive Owen fight about her cheating with the other guy, they are chasing each other up and down the mezzanine stairs: this scene loses its energy because we are not looking at a stageset with said staircase, were just seeing people running on the screen. It is also irritating watching childish adults play so-called sophisticated sex games; nobody really "grows up" in this film. Finally, how did I know this film was going to disappoint right from the start? - That mediocre opening song, of course.

rum: Hollow, hollow hollow. This film was everything style and nothing substance. Mike Nichols has to little offer or even gain considering his previous blah efforts. The days of the 1960s are dead. Like it has been found that Aristole was wrong and character is more important than plot we also know film structure is defeated unless character development can back it up.

Lost In Translation

foray: For all the hype about its writing, this film does not actually weather more than one viewing. The performances by Bill and Scarlett are spot on, but many of the scenes in this film are dedicated to telling us over and over again just how WEIRD Japanese culture is, and how it's okay for whites to make fun of it. (On a messageboard, I defended how Kill Bill, which came out in the cinemas at the same time, was more respectful of foreign culture than Lost In Translation ever was.)

rum: foray is correct in both actors being perfect. Bill Muarry doesn't have to extend himself for us to know he already epidomizes the mannerisms and habit of this character. The story is just dead on arrival with the drum beat quality it has with the theme. It always gets to a point of reflection and revelation only to begin again right after and head right back there. All the film had to do was cut that obsessive search for a larger theme and allow the characters roll and the film would have been fine. It just now lives in yuppy heaven for overpraised trendy films.

Lord of the Rings trilogy

foray: I liked The Fellowship Of The Ring, but after that it became strictly for Rings fans only. Plus, doesn't it bother anyone how the goodies are normal- or good-looking and the baddies are plain butt ugly?

rum: I can't even give Fellowship the mention of being OK. They are all bad. Never has artistry been so phoney and entertainment so bland. To carry on for so long with every film with little or no higher point just gets ridiculous when the films are so inundated to the excesses of fan boy galore with the books. Never read the books myself obviously, but the attempt to translate the book almost by length and coverage is ridiculous. I only know of a few films that have gone over three hours and managed to flow by easy and be entertaining. These films have no characteristics of those at all. Stanley Kubrick was right when he said the books were impossible to adapt into film.

While I was staying in a high-rise, I received the following note under my door:

TO THE IDIOTIC PERSON SENDING FLAMING PAPER PLANES FROM THE UPPER FLOORS.

BEWARE

YOU ARE BEING WARNED

YOU HAVE ALREADY CAUSED DAMAGE TO THE CARPET INSIDE AN APARTMENT WHEN ONE ENTERED THROUGH THE RANCH SLIDER BURNING THE CARPET.

IF THIS HAPPENS AGAIN THE POLICE WILL BE INFORMED AND YOU WILL BE EVICTED FROM THE BUILDING.

IF YOU HAVE SO LITTLE REGARD FOR OTHER PEOPLE AND THEIR PROPERTY WHY DON'T YOU LEAVE NOW.

REMEMBER:::YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.

~ The Building Manager

True story, dat.

A history of Cruelty

I'm not sure if this trend is wholly American, but there's a unique identity to the male friendship in America. Or at least I thought there was....

I grew up in the fantastic world of friendships being cruel and unusual. When I was twelve years my best friend beat the shit out of me for what I can remember was really no reason. He was 2 years older than me and had a violent streak I couldn't yet understand at the time so when he came at throwing fists my defense was hardly anything. I nearly let him kick the shit out of me. Our make up was so quick afterwards I think slept at his house the next night.

I don't know why this always happened. Memory after memory of my friendships when I was younger are events where one was totally cruel to the other. I understood that nicknames weren't just cute interpretations of someone 's name, but sledgehammers meant to undermine someone's entire integrity. The only value in this practice is that for most of us who grew accustomed to receiving hurtful nicknames is that we were getting them before we ever understood the entire meanings. They were already normal and only more normalized when we equally attacked other people with them. I had a cockiness about me I think even came before puberty. It was always around me. My father intimidated people. He intimidated me. It's not that he was an overly large person. He had a tough tongue that could rail someone and if he let it really hurt them. I always thought his marriage to my mother was the terms of a tough individual with an overly sarcastic and cruel tongue matched to a woman who was very nice but plainly average. In the end, the jokes caught up to them. She didn't have the grand interests in his fascinations and didn't have the humor to match his. I saw it all evaporate slowly and painfully. He ended up doing some devious things to her. It was all past saving. It felt like it all was past saving for me too. At age 16 I already hated marriage. Couldn't trust myself because in my father I saw the person I was to become. Everyone told me I was his personality carried down. And I really was.

Thing is, I still am. I've grown to like this personality even. With age comes maturity one can't expect because no one knows how experience will teach the person to be. I don't drink, smoke or do any drugs. I came to find the good qualities in my father. In his marriage I think the simple mistake was that he settled for a woman of depedency that made him compromise his enjoyment for life and partially his quick tongue. Much love to my mother but I don't think they were ever meant to be. Now they have me and 2 younger sons all of whom are promised to make it further in a career than they ever did. That is their hallmark that their marriage meant something.

But, I'm now finding about the complications in male friendships. In college the diversity of people becomes obvious. Most startling is the very apparent diversity in my friends up here. Before coming to college I remembered this one quote: "Women and other women are more different than men and women." That case only became verified as I've to come understand the passive aggressiveness men can have. I have two friends who both were married (very young ages) and now are dealing with life after divorce. One of them even has 2 kids. As much as they want to deny it, they both have venom for their ex wives in their opinions of them. They complain and complain about them. For hours I can hang out with them and the only conversation be about their torment. "When she was good.." seems to be the only positives they can say about her. Thing is, its more complicated. They both were shit husbands. When married, they had no clue how to handle maturity because they only knew they wanted it without already having discovered it. They ignored their wives like someone ignored a dog. The ignorance became ordinary at the beginning. No one thought worst because the relationship was still new and everyone was saying, "Oh what a great man to be married so young." After their marriages grew the criticism finally started to develop out of the marriage. Both men ended up criticizing each other behind their backs for being the terrible husbands and what not. Everyone was friendly but the seeds were being planted to spark furies later on.

Now if this would have been my friends when I was younger the truth would have been out quicker than anyone could have imagined. Both would have understood how much the other person thought he was an idiot right away. It never happened that way this time. Both found excuses to think their argument was better without fessing up to their feelings to the other person or even applying criticism onto themselves. When I was thrown into this problem it became obvious I was a pure land mine. Automatically I could not stand one of the wives. I threw opinions in her face and she had so much insecurity she would erupt all the time and erupt even more after I was gone to her husband about me. "Why do you fucking hang out with that guy? I can't stand him!" It also wasn't that she was insecure, she was also very mean spirited about it. Not many people liked her. The other marriage became typified as the religious marriage. Both were very religious and very believing that a chastity belt surrounded their marriage even if they were having as much sex as an older couple who don't. Also add on they ignored each other. Going to a unversity that provided every student a lap top allowed them the ability to sit in the same room together and not say one word to each other but feel like they were contributing to each other's common good because they were close. Throwing criticism at him was harder. Behind the religious ideals was a temperment problem. A major temper. Anytime I came near criticism he sniffed it out and barked out at me.

After a while, I was tired of it. I thought both couples were doomed to a self hell and I was planning on moving on in my life and never seeing them again. Forward two years, I ended up going to the same university they both just began at. Both now are divorced and and I'm seeing the aftermath as I got into friendships with them again. The behind the back complaining and bickering is as alive as ever. They both are very different people who only seem to have a shared history in common. I have qualities in common with both: I have enough humor to bullshit with one of them and I have enough intellectual capacity to discuss with the other. One benefit of being friends with them after is they are becoming more open to dialogue about their problems so my tongue has more place to open up to them. The honesty so far has been brutal. I've managed to say things that got both of them to openly admit they wanted to punch me at the time. But my words never have been out of cruelty, they have been out of honesty. I just want both guys to move on and honestly, get laid. Their self torment is so encapsulating of all the time that I spend with them that anytime I get self involved with a problem I'm shut out because its interrupting their talking so I really don't tell them personal things anymore. To make themselves feel better, one has thrown criticism back in my face. His analysis is that my constant hammering of him is out of my own insecurity and self doubt about myself. When he told me this I didn't care. When he told me things meant simply to piss me off I never bit back. I just let it go. I'd be insane not to see self doubt in myself but my opinions are not forged because of that. The comments he made though didn't hurt me. They actually don't bother me in the slightest. I was happy one of them actually felt confident to throw some words at me finally.

I'm trying to be honest with them. Unlike everyone else they know, I'm just trying to be honest. They try to surround themselves with agreeing faces but I refuse to be just that. They believe their torments and problems are so huge when they really are fucking fickle. Both have health and good futures to look forward to but it seems both of them would forfeit that just to get back the things they lost. If misery is the identity of losing what meant the most to you than they already lost it. They can be brought out to a pasture and shot. I just don't think they have lost it. They lost the feeling of self worth for now and until proven wrong they just feel unattractive and alone. I hope someday they are both truly fucking humbled.

A recent jaunt to Malacca, the historical city of Malaysia, had me doing something I wouldn't normally do: the tourist-y thing. Sister had persuaded me to take a tour of the city by rickshaw for thirty ringgit an hour.

And so, here there was this old man huffing and puffing ahead of us, our rickshaw decorated with plastic flowers and a box radio blaring "oonce oonce" disco music. We threaded around the town like a mini float parade; it only made sense for us to wave like the Queen.

I remember when the rickshaw was not mainly for tourists, when it was just like any regular taxicab. As a child, my Por Por (grandmother) used to flag rickshaws down all the time, when we went to the wet markets and back.

Early in the morning, Por Por would climb up the stairs to our attic singing her tune hang kai, hang kai - let us take a walk. She would tempt us to wake up with reminders of the sweet black bean buns and crispy yow char gwais we could get at the market.

The wet markets always smelled awful. The juices of animal corpses made my jandals squirt as I walked along the streets. I remember green crabs in large buckets always wanting to climb out, and chickens having their necks slashed in full view. Sometimes Por Por would eye some wee chicks in a cage and buy them to rear at home. She never let us witness a slaughter.

The ride home was always the highlight. Rickshaws in those days were nondescript; none of this fanfare with the fake plastic flowers and loud music. My most vivid recollection of it is watching the tarred road swish by as we covered more and more ground. The wind blew in our faces as we munched contentedly on sweet black bean buns.